Kris Schnee - Everyone's Island

Zephyr held up “Algernon,” the rat that sat on his hand awaiting commands, utterly dependent on him. It did nothing but breathe. Zephyr said, “I have an answer to a question you’d asked a while ago.”

“About the rats?”

“About me, and everything.” Zephyr held the inert rat up for Martin to see, making Tess tremble at what was coming. “You asked: why do I care about not being controlled?”

And Zephyr quietly, efficiently snapped the rat’s neck.

“It was already dead,” said Zephyr. “I figured out why I do what I do. The answer is: to be free is to be alive. They’re the same thing.”

Zephyr set the zombie corpse on Martin’s desk and left with Tess, while Martin sat there with his jaw hanging open.

The place was growing in spite of everything. The problem was that the new, slapped-together platforms were deathtraps. There was a close call yesterday, which now had Garrett coming hat-in-hand to the infirmary. The doctor had one of Jenner’s research staff for an assistant and a young Canadian as a capable nurse. Everyone looked the other way at the legal requirements for an American or Cuban medical clinic, which were complex enough that Castor would have a noncompliant facility or none at all.

What was important right now was the boy on the cot, with an IV in his arm and with his head and other arm bandaged. A third-hand sensor kit beeped a heart rate, and his parents kept watch.

“You,” said the father. He stood, taller even than Garrett. “This is your fault.”

“How is he?” Garrett had already asked the doctor, but he had to come for the sake of appearances.

“He’ll recover. He’s sleeping now — but you let this happen to my son.”

The boy had gone swimming in the open sea and had been smashed between a boat and a concrete platform. He was lucky to be alive. Admit nothing , Martin had said, but the father’s accusation made his cheeks flush and his hands curl into fists at his sides. “No, sir, it’s not my fault or that of Castor. You chose to come here and let the boy swim unsupervised despite half a dozen warnings that this is not a swimming pool. I’m saddened by what happened, but if there’s blame to assign, it’s not for me.”

The father glared at Garrett. “You people are really low, you know that? First you hurt my kid, then you charge me for medical care. Your doc wouldn’t take his National Wellness card. Just cash, like a gang of pirates.”

“Pirates are thieves . They take things by force. US National Wellness Insurance doesn’t reimburse our clinic, so our doctor is asking you to pay for what you get. You’re not a thief either, right?”

The boy’s mother looked up balefully at both of them. They fell silent and Garrett started walking away. “Get out,” said the father to his retreating back. Garrett paused for a moment, refusing to give even the appearance of taking orders from him, then left the clinic.

Once he was out of there and sulking at a table in Phillip’s Place, he let himself mouth a string of silent curses. I don’t want to be the bad guy! I was there to offer condolences! Maybe he could get Eaton to fix things again, to get their half-assed clinic certified for the insurance system. Garrett’s thoughts drifted towards the clean world of technical problems and resource management.

“Having fun?” asked Duke, slithering into the backwards chair opposite him.

Garrett looked at him with narrowed eyes, hoping he’d get the hint and leave.

“Come now, Captain, that unpleasant business is behind us. We should look to the future.”

“What do you want?”

“Glory,” said Duke. “Don’t you know the feeling of being the center of the world? Loved or hated, with all eyes on you and your name on everyone’s lips?” There was an excited light in the man’s eyes.

Garrett thought back to how he’d stood atop Castor, talking to the world. What a change that was from his acting days. Now that there was real trouble and no script, no happy ending, he’d been scared as hell, and sad. Yet people had listened and he’d made a fleeting connection to countless people’s lives, trying to make them see why he was replacing the flag. Why he was right. But why not rely on the likes of Eaton to pull strings for him? Or declare victory, go home, and wait for the government to start its own Castor? He had no answer other than stubbornness, and that wasn’t a good one. Maybe he’d been doing everything for his own glory, and he’d have been just as happy trying to be a movie star. But there’d also been a more satisfying thrill in the private communion he’d shared with Zephyr and Tess and Val. They’d been together as equals, which felt very different than having a crowd stare up at him. He didn’t have to pretend to know everything to get their respect, their friendship.

Duke said, “Yes? No?”

“I think I know what you mean,” he said at last. “But explain it in terms a poor engineer can understand.”

Duke laughed abrasively. “Dear leader, you’re much more than an engineer! You’re a rebel hero. Your own online store sells shirts with you as Che Guevara, with the beret and all.”

Garrett’s stomach churned. “That’s disgusting. I’ll have that product pulled.”

“Bah, most people barely know who he was. On Cuba there’s even a restaurant called “Girl Hitler”. The specifics fade into myth, leaving the glory.” Duke waved a hand as if dismissing a few million people. “It’s not like you can condemn people who lived in different cultures and different eras anyway. The point is that we have the opportunity here to consciously shape the public’s impression of you, to our mutual benefit.”

“’Mutual benefit’? I still don’t know what the hell you’re after.”

Duke sighed. “I’m doing a television show about the trials and tribulations of an ocean colony. Comprende? If you haven’t noticed, there’ve been sizzling rumors about why that dashing actor has returned to Castor with a film crew.”

“Because he’s desperate for a comeback?”

“My crew has been gathering footage and attracting attention while my colleagues in Hollywood and Mumbai work on scripts.”

“How nice for you. If you’re filming here, we’ll be eager for your dollars. Now get to the point. What do you want from me?”

“This station of yours is rustic but not without its charm, especially in its lack of unions. What I want from you, Captain, is the glory.”

“I’m fresh out.”

“Not at all! Remember, your actions have caught attention. The more you struggle, the more you create controversy, the more buzz I’ll get. So be a public figure, sir, and stir hearts with your exciting deeds.” Duke gave his photogenic, toothy grin. “I don’t care what those deeds are.”

Garrett spent half the night in his office, unable to sleep or work. His station, his colony, was hurting people. He couldn’t run it without people being maimed and killed. Castor couldn’t exist without endlessly pissing people off. What could he say to the people who wanted to wreck him, other than “please don’t?” He’d invested way too much in Castor, emotionally even, to quit now and let everyone down. But here Duke was leering at the prospect of him being a petty tyrant, generating controversy for its own sake. Garrett had had enough of fighting people politically and getting accused of villainy. Was he a villain, then? Garrett found himself analyzing his own actions as though he were on stage again. Out loud he said, “No.”

But he was missing something here. Risking his money and his life might make him glorious by Duke’s vile standards, but it didn’t make him a good person. It made him weary and sad. And if he wasn’t confident that he was doing the right thing, then why was he here?